


Understanding the Rules

by Fyre



Series: Bend the Rules [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-10
Updated: 2012-04-10
Packaged: 2017-11-03 10:07:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/380209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Izzy French learns that when Mr Gold puts rules in place, he doesn't like them to be broken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Understanding the Rules

In the shop, there are rules.

They are very specific and very particular rules.

Miss French is very aware of them.

They were listed to her on her first day as Mr Gold’s assistant: Thou shalt not move any object from the shelf on which it is place but to clean it. Thou shalt not sit on the counter on any occasion. Thou shalt not open any of the boxes or jars on the top shelf below the counter. Thou shalt not chew gum while working. Thou shalt not come disturb Mr Gold unless it is something vitally important.

Izzy French doesn’t really like rules. She likes to decide her own fate and rules kind of get in the way of that. Okay, she agreed to be here, to help her dad out, even though it’s his own stupid fault for getting in debt again. He’s her father after all. And he should know better than dealing with Gold. Everyone should. 

Anyway, Mr Gold is out on business, so he can’t see that she’s popping sweet pink bubbles and sitting on the counter, reading a beat-up copy of Pride and Prejudice. He’ll never know that she opened up all the boxes under the counter, just to see what the big deal was. He probably won’t even notice that she’s switched some of the jars around for the fun of it.

Izzy hates the fact that she still has to pay for her dad’s screw-ups. 

The only thing that makes it okay is that Mr Gold is… interesting. He’s a hard-ass boss, but that’s not a big surprise. He has the worst reputation in town, so she didn’t expect him to be all flowers and kittens. He’s funny, though. Not funny in a way most people would laugh at, but funny in a way Izzy likes, dark and bitter and sarcastic.

Sometimes, he says something bitchy about a recent customer, and she’ll snigger into her dusting. She knows it probably makes her weird, but Izzy likes being that way. She likes being unexpected, in much more adventurous ways that even Ruby. Ruby might dye her hair and wear hotpants up to her arse, but Izzy does it in ways that people would never expect.

She’s a bookworm. That’s what they call her, because she works in the library when she’s not working for Gold. She wears sundresses and pigtails and hardly any make-up at all. They don’t know she’s got a tattoo. Not even her father knows about that. Most of them don’t even know she has her tongue pierced, because sh! You don’t talk in a library.

She sprawls on her back, propping one foot on top of the cash register, kicking her sundress up, and turns another page. She used to find Darcy interesting and sarcastic, but that’s not nearly sarcastic enough now. She wonders how Lizzie Bennett would take Gold’s cattiness. Probably with a smart response and a raised eyebrow. 

She’s halfway through when she realises that she’s not alone.

The sneaky bastard must have crept in the back door to check on her, and he’s standing at the entrance to the backshop, hands on top of his cane. How he moved without her hearing the familiar tapping, she doesn’t know, but she knows she’s in trouble. 

Izzy considers her options. There’s the grovelling apology option, which she discards at once. That’s just not her at all. There’s the feigning oblivious option, which would just be childish. She settles on finishing the page option. She uncrosses her ankles, on top of the register, her skirt a puddle around her hips on the counter, and takes her time getting to the end of the page. 

That done, she reaches under the counter and pulls one of the blank receipts he keeps there out to use as a bookmark, then swings her legs down. She meets his eyes with defiance as she arranges her skirt more modestly.

“Miss French,” he murmurs. “I thought the rules were quite specific.”

She pushes herself down from the counter. “I wasn’t sitting on it,” she points out. “I was lying on it.”

He inclines his head. “Well, I suppose that’s one less rule broken,” he murmurs. “What about the rest?”

She widens her eyes. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that the Seeds of Babylon should not be on the same shelf as the Angel wings,” he says, without looking away from her. His cane cuts through the air, pointing from one shelf to another, where she moved the jars around. “The lids have been removed from the boxes beneath the counter.” He takes a step closer to her. “And I cannot help but notice that you are chewing some of that ridiculous gum.”

She’s getting good at reading his moods, and she can tell for a fact that he’s not really mad at her. Maybe it was the lying on the counter that did it. She has good legs. They may have distracted him a little. She licks her index finger and thumb innocently, then plucks the gum from her mouth and drops it in the trashcan. 

She’d have to be blind to miss the way his eyes watched her tongue.

Interesting. 

“There’s one rule I didn’t break,” she says, smiling. He raises an eyebrow, and she pauses only a second before stepping closer. Pushing the boundaries can be fun sometimes, especially when he’s looking at her like that. “I didn’t disturb Mr Gold.”

His eyes fix on her face, then slide down her body, as if he’s undressing her with them. He leans a little closer, until his face is so close to hers she can feel how warm his skin is. “I wouldn’t say that, dear,” he murmurs.

She’s never been this close to him before, and his eyes are back on hers and she’s never had anyone look at her like that before. “I’m sorry,” she breathes, though she’s not sure what she’s apologising for.

“Not yet,” he whispers. He catches her arm and spins her around, and is pressed against her back before she even as a moment to think. “You broke the rules, dear, and for that, I think you deserve a strict reprimand.”

Any other day, any other time, she would have stomped on his foot, elbowed him in the gut or just pepper-sprayed him. But he was looking at her like she was something special to him, and even now, his hand is on her belly and is stroking and gentle, even if he’s growling in her ear.

“Put your hands on the counter,” he says. It’s not a shout or a whisper. His voice is calm and steady and his hand is moving in soothing circles. She’s not afraid of him. She knows she could never be afraid of him. “Show me you can do what you’re told, for once.”

She tilts her head to glance at him from the corner of her eye. “What are you going to do to me?” she whispers.

His cane brushes against the outside of her right leg, trailing up, and she shivers as it draws the skirt with it. The tip is cold metal and she squeaks.

“I remember corporal punishment,” he murmurs, and there’s something in his voice, just like when he’s at his most sarcastic. It’s dark and wicked and it’s directed at her. “I’ve been told that spare the rod, you spoil the shop-staff.”

“You can’t!” she protests, but it’s half-hearted and she’s too curious, too intrigued, far too interested in just how far he will take this.

“My shop, dear,” he murmurs and swats her thigh lightly with the stick. 

Izzy exclaims in surprise. It doesn’t hurt, but it was unexpected. “Mr Gold!”

He moves alongside her. “Hands on the counter please, Miss French,” he murmurs. “A lesson must be learned.”

She looks at him, his dark eyes, and sees the challenging twitch at his mouth. He always likes pushing her buttons to get a response, and now, he’s hit her giant red ‘are you a complete wuss?’ button. She sticks out her tongue, but puts her hands on the edge of the counter, as she’s told. 

“Good girl,” he murmurs. His cane brushes against both thighs, dragging up. Her skirt is swaying, tickling against her calves. “Now, bend forward. Just a little.” He leans down to breathe in her ear. “I wouldn’t want you to strain yourself.”

She shivers pleasantly, then again when his lips brush her ear.

“Now, Miss French,” The hand that was on her belly draws her hair back from her face. “I want you to tell me which rule you broke first.”

She gazes sidelong at him. “The jars under the counter.”

His cane moves in a slow circle on her backside. “Specifically, dear,” he murmurs.

“Opened them all, looked in them all…” Her words cut off in a squeak when the cane strikes her backside sharply through the dress. 

“That might have been dangerous,” he murmurs, his finger brushing the edge of her jaw.

“They were just ja-ow! He swats again, more sharply this time and she looks around at him, offended.

His face is close to hers, his eyes dark. “This shop is full of dangers, dear,” he whispers to her. “If I tell you not to touch something, there’s a reason.” The cane brushes again, dragging fabric against stinging skin. It shouldn’t feel good, but it does, tingling. “I tell you the rules to keep you safe.”

“Safe?” she echoes.

“Safe,” he murmurs. “Now, the second rule?”

“Gum,” she whispers. “Pink gum.”

His hand is back on her stomach, moving in a circle. “You know I dislike it.” The cane shrills in the air and she yelps as a warming stripe lands across her buttocks. She barely has time to catch her breath and there’s another and another. “I really,” he whispers a word with each strike, “dislike gum.”

“No gum,” she breathes, her backside tingling. “Got it.”

He slides the cane slowly across the offended skin. “Really?” Izzy shivers, then yelps again when he spanks her again. “Miss French, I asked you a question.”

“Really!” she exclaims.

“Good,” he murmurs, lifting the cane away. His hand on her belly moves and her skirt is drawn up an inch at a time. “Now, the next rule?”

“Moving things,” she whispers. It’s getting kind of hard to breathe and she can see people peering in the window, at items, and that makes it worse. If they come in and find them like this, it’ll be the talk of the town. Gold doesn’t seem to give a damn.

“How many?” he asks, his voice a low growl. 

“I-I don’t remember.”

The cane strikes the back of her bare thighs, and it stings even more than her backside, and she‘s amazed her legs don’t buckle. “I don’t think that’s a good answer, dear,” he whispers. “You moved them, so you must know. I want to know what you moved.”

She looks up, as he runs the cane distractingly over the back of her thighs, the wood and metal smooth and cool and sliding against her like no one’s business. She tries to remembers, searches the shelves and trembles.

“The Angel wings and Seeds of Babylon!”

“Well remembered, dear,” he murmurs close to her ear. “But I told you them. Now, I want to know what you remember.”

She breathes deep, tries to concentrate, but he’s making it difficult. The wood is really, really smooth and it’s sliding up and down and tremors are running through her and she wants to just let him keep doing that.

The cane hisses in the air and she yelps as it catches her just below the buttocks. “Mr Gold!”

“Answers, dearie,” he whispers, and she can hear the wicked delight in his voice. “A lesson to be learned, remember. That doesn’t involve you rubbing yourself all over my walking stick.”

It should, she thinks, blowing out a breath and forcing herself to remember what she did.

The shelves by the window. There was something there. A box. The cane’s tip is tracing the back of her knee, it’s sliding up, it’s under her skirt and it’s cold and she wonders if her would actually use it to…

Another stripe is laid across her backside.

“Ow!”

“Answers, dearie,” he chuckles. “I’m not getting any younger.”

“There was a box,” she manages to say. “Wooden. With stars on the lid. It’s by the glass cabinet now.”

“Hmm.” He looks around. “I see one more thing.”

She tilts her head to look at him, panting softly as the cane slides along the curve where buttock meets thigh. “What?”

“I can see one more thing that has been moved.”

It’s impossible. He can’t possibly have checked the whole shop. “You’re joking, right?”

That curve gets a sharp, stinging swat and she squeals. 

“I never joke,” he whispers. “The last item, dear.” The cool wood soothes the reddened skin again. She knows her backside must have more stripes than a zebra by now, and she shivers all the way down to her toes. “The last.”

The counter is slippery under her hands and she tries to think, tries to remember. There were jewels and lamps and toys and a thousand and one things and the cane is rapping lightly, just a tap, light, gentle, in time with the tick of the old clock above the counter. 

She hears the swish a second before the cane strikes her backside again and she bites her lip as the warming tingle runs through her. 

“One minute,” he observes.

“You’re distracting,” she pants as the cane starts tapping time again.

“You were rule-breaking,” he replies in a smug murmur. “The last.”

She tries to ignore the stupid man and his stupid cane and his stupid hand which is sliding up, and the metal and the wood and his hand is cupping her breast and he’s sliding that cane against her like it’s his…

“The totem!” she exclaims. “The stone totem thing! With… with the parts.”

His chuckle is pure filth and he squeezes her breast through the dress, sending fireworks off though her body. “The parts?” he says, and she just knows he’s going to ask. “What parts?”

“You know,” she pants as he kneads at her breast, that stupid, stupid cane still sliding. “The male parts.” She almost swears when the cane dips and slips between her thighs, just for a second, and her knees tremble.

“And here I thought you were an educated lady,” he murmurs, gleeful and wicked. “Call it what it is.”

She bares her teeth at him. “A dick,” she hisses, then jolts when smooth wood slides against her inner thigh.

“Apt,” he murmurs, then withdraws the stick to run the cool tip from her backside all the way down to her knees, making her thighs tremble. “Now.” His fingertips drum against her breast, and he hums. “Where were we?”

“Rules?” she breathes, trying not to push against his hand, the cane, both, him, God, any of them.

He rolls her nipple between finger and thumb. “Very good,” he murmurs, toying with her breast thoughtfully. “So you moved things, you opened things, you put things in your mouth that I asked you not to…”

She dares a look at him. “You have things you want me to put in my mouth?” she says before she can stop herself, and she sees the way his eyes darken, and God if he isn’t as enjoying this as much as she is.

The cane cracks across her backside again and she stifles a yelp into a whimper.

“Distracting me, dearie?” He rolls the cane over the skin, making her twitch as it crosses each and every stripe that’s already there. 

She laughs breathlessly. “Is it working?” This time, the twitch rocks her whole body as he catches her low, below the knickerline, and the warmth isn’t just tingling across her backside, not at all. She breathes raggedly, her fingers squeaking on the glass of the counter.

“The rules.” His voice is rougher now, and she knows she’s not helping when she pushes herself back against the cane and her hips roll. “Which other rules.”

“The counter,” she whispers. His eyes are on her face and she smiles, small and wicked. “I lied. I sat on it.”

The hand on her breast squeezes just as the cane cuts the air and she can’t swallow the squeal that escapes her.

“You are a terrible employee,” Gold whispers, and his voice is as ragged as hers. His accent is stronger now. It always is when he’s too distracted to think about it. His hand is sliding down the front of her dress to her belly again and his cane is slapping sharply, rapidly against her, enough to make her backside burn. “You could have broken… could have damaged…” 

He must be distracted if he can’t finish what he’s saying, she thinks, squirming against his hand, his cane. 

“Didn’t,” she pants. “Nothing broken.”

He slides his hand rudely, boldly between her thighs, and she bucks, startled. “I don’t know about that, Miss French,” he breathes , and he’s close by her side, almost pressing to her, and she can feel his fingers right through her knickers. “My resolve is close to shattered.”

“Resolve?” she breathes, trying to press against his hand.

“Mm.” He drags his tongue up the curve of her ear, just as his cane slides against the crack of her buttocks. “You broke the final rule in the worst way of all.” His fingers slide beneath her knickers, and the cane moves slowly, up and down, encouraging her to rock against him. “I am very, very disturbed by you.”

The sound catches in her throat, a choked, wanting whimper as he slides a finger inside her just as his tongue explores her ear. His fingers as moving, slow, another, slow and deep, and just when she thinks he’s forgotten, the cane stings her backside again and her hips twitch and drive his fingers deeper.

“You’re a wicked creature, Miss French,” he whispers, striking her backside as if he was urging on a racehorse. Her hips are already moving against his hand and the heat across her rear is only making her squirm more, fire shooting through her veins with each slap of wood on warm, tingling skin. “Wicked and teasing and a trouble-maker.”

She laughs, breathlessly, whimpers as he presses his thumb just, just there. His fingers are deep, another one, maybe three, she doesn’t know, but there and the stick is hot across her backside and she moves and it’s delicious and wicked and he kisses her throat, leaving his mark, his mark, on her, his fingers, in her, his cane, on her, him, him, him, on her, and she’s breathless and quaking and he’s still pushing deeper, and she can’t breathe, and her hands skim on the glass and he’s murmuring her name, not Izzy, not Izzy, Belle, Belle, and it’s her name and it’s in her ear and she can’t help, can’t stop, can’t speak and and and…

His arm keeps her from falling when her knees give out. His fingers are still wet, wet with her, and slick and she can see them shimmer against her waist as he holds her up.

“Now,” he whispers, “do we understand the rules?”

She lifts her face to look at him, and knows she must be as flushed as he is. “No more disturbing the boss,” she pants out. She can’t help the smirk that curls her lips. “Unless I want to be punished.”

He might have kissed her then, she realises, if she hadn’t got ahead of herself.

As it is, he sets her down on the floor and gives her a stern look. “And no sitting on the counter.”

**Author's Note:**

> Followed by [And Then...](http://archiveofourown.org/works/380275)


End file.
